


where i’ve been

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Post-Canon, You leave your girl alone for ten minutes and she almost gets killed by a bolshevik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 07:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14184075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: She waits until hours have passed before she finally allows herself to begin trembling.Dmitry notices, and clasps her hands in his before raising them to his lips. For a second, it is impossible to meet his eyes.“Dima,” she whispers, “Gleb came back for me.”





	where i’ve been

**Author's Note:**

> SO many people on tumblr wanted to see how dmitry would react to finding out what went down between Anya and Gleb in the finale. I could only hope to do this scene justice!

She waits until hours have passed before she finally allows herself to begin trembling. Dmitry is so busy setting up a hotel room for the night (it’s a tiny, quaint place, the polar opposite of the luxury they’ve enjoyed for the past week, small and utterly Anya). He doesn’t notice until they’re in the elevator, and he hears a muffled gasp from beside him.  
  
“Anya?”  
  
When he turns, she has a hand pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are closed; she leans back against the elevator wall, as if she hopes to pull more strength from it.  
  
(She should be taking that strength from him, damn it. He’s right here for her.)

“What’s the matter?” He places a hand on her arm. When she doesn’t reply, with even a glance, he pleads, “Anya?”

Finally she opens her eyes; and she tells him everything.  
  
He understands why Anya waited, because hours is at least enough time for one man to leave the country before Dmitry can get his hands on him.  
  
“I’ll kill him,” he declares, pacing the carpet of their tiny hotel room. “I’ll go straight back to Russia if I have to, but I’ll kill him!”  
  
“Don’t say that,” Anya exclaims, and the harsh edge to her voice drags him back down to himself. She’s glaring at him, fire in her blue eyes; he meets her gaze just as fiercely.  
  
“He tried to _kill_ you, Anya,” he stresses. The words taste poisonous on his tongue. Unbidden, the image on Anya crumpled on the ground in her red dress, blood pooling under her crumpled form, flashed through his head. He feels a sudden surge of nausea, intensified by raw fury. He has never been a violent man, never relied on violence or threats except to survive... but he would kill anyone who hurt Anya, without hesitation. As the realization dawns on him, he isn’t surprised by it. (There is an ice-cold fear that fills his bones, and he is grateful for the rage that numbs it. As long as he is angry, he can’t be horrified by what might have happened.)  
  
“You won’t do anything to him,” Anya retorts. Her voice is firm; once again, she is a grand duchess. When she gives an order, she expects it to be followed, but there is too _much_ behind this one command. Too much emotion, too much fear, too many _what ifs_ and _my gods._  
  
She’s right, of course. Dmitry can’t do anything to Gleb now.  
  
But if he were right in front of them, he knows he would. He cannot say what he would do, but it would be merciless, and he could never take it back.  
  
Instead, he just looks at her — shivering despite the warmth of the room, and the heavy dark coat draped over her bare shoulders. The coat masks her dress’s majesty, but only a bit. She still _looks_ every inch Anastasia, even if her voice, and movements, and the light in her eyes all belong to the Anya he knows. He can so easily imagine her, standing in a dark room alongside her family; he can see her in a ballroom alone, pistol trained at her heart.  
  
A shuddering breath escapes him, and he feels the last of his fury go with it. Now all that is left is the fear; it swallows him whole. He slumps down on the bed next to him and bows his head, dragging a hand through his hair. God, he could have lost her. God, he could have gotten on that train, and never _known,_ had no idea...  
  
A hand lands on his back, and suddenly Anya is hugging him. This is all wrong. He should be the one holding her.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I should have been there to protect you.”  
  
“No, Dima,” she says. “I’m glad you weren’t.”  
  
“How can you say that? How —“ His words cut off with a wet sound that he refuses to call a sob. Anger bares his teeth, clenching his fists in his lap, but it is a far cry from the rage of before.  
  
“If I had been there to stop him... if I had stayed...”  
  
“Things may have ended differently.”  
  
She’s right; there’s no telling how Dmitry would have escalated the situation. Chances are they would not be sitting here, side by side, holding each other in a warm little hotel room. Chances are...  
  
As quickly as Dmitry would fight for her, he knows he would also die for her.  
  
It is not her slumped on the floor in his vision now; he feels sharp pain bloom in his chest, and chokes on the phantom taste of blood. A shudder runs through him, and he pulls her tighter against him.  
  
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he swears. “If he comes back...”  
  
“He won’t come back.”  
  
“Still, Anya... never. I’ll keep you safe until the end of the world. I’ll always protect you.”  
  
Her lips press against his temples, tender and loving. She knows. Dmitry does not have to promise, does not have to say it. She _knows._  
  
After a few moments of quiet, she huffs a laugh against the top of his head. When he tilts to look up at her, incredulous, he finds her smiling. “Have you forgotten? I’m pretty good at protecting myself.”  
  
A laugh bubbles from Dmitry’s throat before he can stop it, and Anya snorts. Then they are both giggling, helpless, slumped forward and shaking with the force of their hysterics. They cannot contain themselves. It’s infectious and powerful, shaking them both like they’re caught in the middle of an earthquake. There is no mirth in their laughter; they are not happy, not exuberant. They laugh because they can do nothing else.  
  
When their laughter finally subsides, Dmitry is the one holding Anya as tears stream down her face. He rocks her; he kisses the salt from her cheeks, and strokes the soft corn silk of her hair. Finally, she slumps backwards, and they lean against the pillows together.  
  
For the rest of the night, Dmitry does not let her go.  



End file.
